This blog will probably soon turn into a bookmark folder, but what is the fun of having a single-owner blog if you can’t do with it what you will? I found this poem today and have been ODing on Robert Duncan’s poetry all day. I tend to behave obsessively on days that I have to travel. I am sure there is some nice bit of psycho-analysis to be had there.
But I wanted to continue where I left off so this goes up for future reference and for pleasure.
Poetry, A Natural Thing
Neither our vices nor our virtues
further the poem. “They came up
and died
just like they do every year
on the rocks.”
The poem
feeds upon thought, feeling, impulse,
to breed itself,
a spiritual urgency at the dark ladders leaping.
This beauty is an inner persistence
toward the source
striving against (within) down-rushet of the river,
a call we heard and answer
in the lateness of the world
primordial bellowings
from which the youngest world might spring,
salmon not in the well where the
hazelnut falls
but at the falls battling, inarticulate,
blindly making it.
This is one picture apt for the mind.
A second: a moose painted by Stubbs,
where last year’s extravagant antlers
lie on the ground.
The forlorn moosey-faced poem wears
new antler-buds,
the same,
“a little heavy, a little contrived”,
his only beauty to be
all moose.
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